















.:m'->''^^ 












:i•i■ 













Class IiSA?^Q3_ 
Book ^ P, 



^ 



igOT ° V\\Oc^ 



CorausHT DEPOSm 







4: 










NOTE 



For permission to print the letters and poems in this 
volume thanks are due to Mrs. John Hay. The 
frontispiece is an etching by Sidney L. Smith from 
a photograph of John Hay taken about 1860. 



A Poet in Exiley^ 



OHN HAY was born a poet; he achieved 
fame as statesman, diplomat, and man-of- 
letters. And because of this manifold achieve- 
ment there was vouchsafed him little leisure 
or opportunity for the pursuit of the poetic 
muse that had smiled on him at his birth. 

Too many honors are not easy to reconcile 
with the exactments of a goddess who de- 
mands one's sole allegiance, and so the poet's 
over-generous endowment, which came to 
him both from within and from without, forced 
him, if not to turn his back upon his muse, 
at least to consign her to a secluded niche. 
" To him the parting of the ways came early ; 
and what was there in our literary atmosphere 



and opportunity sixty years ago, to make po- 
etry the vocation of any thorough trained, 
aspiring, resolute man ? " 

It was with longing and regret that John 
Hay turned away from that poetic muse, who 
! would have claimed him for her own. " The 
' Nation called for workers"; the call was 
I sounded by the voice of Lincoln. John Hay, 
the man of action, answered, and the poet 
I John Hay accepted his inevitable banish- 



ment, mtt^mm 

:' Yet after the accomplishment of "daily 

tasks," the poet did return from time to time 

j^ to sing, and for these " songs," though they 
were but a presage of what might have been, 
we must be grateful, as we are for those oner- 
ous " tasks " so faithfully performed. 

<WJi Of the relation of his public service to his 
poetic gift Stedman asserted in his " Poets of 
America": — 
L "John Hay, whose writings are at once 



£^^^^£^i^ 



CO 

fine and strong, has been so engrossed by 
rare experience of * cities, — councils, govern- 
ments,' as scarcely to have done full justice 
to his sterling gifts. With his taste, mental 
vigor, and mastery of style, he may well be 
taken to task for neglecting a faculty excep- 
tionally his own. The uncompromising dialect 
pieces, which made a hit as easily as they were 
thrown off, are the mere excess of his pathos 
and humor. Such poetry as the blank-verse 
impromptu on Liberty shows the higher worth 
of a man who should rise above indifference, 
and the hindrance of his mood, and in these 
spiritless times take up the lyre again, not fit- 
fully touch the strings." 

But John Hay was destined to touch the 
strings no more than fitfully, for as a man of 
action he must be ever in the saddle, and the 
reiterated order to ** ride abroad " was one not 
to be disregarded. And so the poet, early ban- 
ished from the Elysian fields that beckoned 



M 



CO 



:# 



SO alluringly, remained in exile until the end, 
with hoW many fair songs unsung ! '^^ip 
Had the man of action lived less fully and 
richly, out in the open, had he been less suc- 
cessful, worked less assiduously, the poet 
might have come into his ovm ; he might have 
realized those early aspirations that were his 
birthright, those that he cherished in his col- 
lege days when he was chosen class-poet at 
Brown University. 















w 



One views v^nth interest the boyish picture 
of the slender youth as he appeared to his 
associates at twenty years of age ; it is a sen- 
sitive and thoughtful face, and viewing it, one 
is disposed to question if this immature strip- 
ling can be the brilliant young graduate with 
exceptional gifts and exalted literary ideals ? 
Beside this early picture of John Hay, as he 
appeared to others, it may be edifying to place 
a second portrait, drawn by himself just at the 



I ^ - 

close of his college career, which shows the 
subject in a light that reveals the maturity of 
his thought, and the depth and breadth of his 
intellectual development. 

This characteristic portrait has been long 
hidden away in a small packet of old letters 
tied with a faded ribbon, and carefully pre- 
served for nearly forty years by her to whom 
they were addressed. And now more than a 
decade has elapsed since the departure of the 
recipient, who treasured the slim packet both 
for the writer's sake, and for the wealth of 
memories of her own youth which its contents 
evoked. 

Miss Nora Perry, to whom these letters 
were addressed, was one of the leading spirits 
in that artistic and literary coterie in Provi- 
dence, Rhode Island, which grouped itself 
about the charming Mrs. Whitman, who came 
so near to linking her fortunes with those of 
Edgar Allan Poe. 







I'SStiUV 



[ 6 ] 

His days at Brown University were draw- 
ing to a close when John Hay, who ranked 
among the brightest of the college men, was 
introduced into this small and charmed circle, 
which appealed strongly to his active intellect 
and did much to strengthen his literary aspira- 
tions. These aspirations were above all poeti- 
cal, and to these, the poetic gift of Mrs. Whit- 
man, and that of Miss Perry, contributed not 
a little, while their friendly sympathy and 
emphatic personalities made a forcible im- 
pression upon the modest youth, who was 
wearing the laurels of class-poet. This young 
man, with his boundless enthusiasm and his 
love of the beautiful in art and nature, re- 
sponded with all his characteristic ardor to 
the stimulating influence of those brilliant 
women and clever men who frequented the 
cultured gatherings of which Mrs. Whitman 
was invariably the central figure. 

At this time Miss Perry, who was a few 




■'^li^aj;?^. 



in 

years older than Mr. Hay, had already won 
fame for herself as a poet and writer of short 
stories, having captured the public by that 
most popular of her poetic productions which 
opens with the familiar lines : — 

"Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
But not alone in the silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within." 

In later years this poem, in company with 
«* After the Ball," another of her popular suc- 
cesses, became the writer's bete noir, so thor- 
oughly did she weary of being hailed as their 
author, an experience shared by many poets 
who have tried vainly to focus the attention of 
their public upon what they consider their 
best work. Edmund Clarence Stedman suf- 
fered constantly from popular enthusiasm for 




his " Undiscovered Country," as did Thomas 
Bailey Aldrich in regard to "Baby Bell." 

Although not favored with any especial 
beauty of feature. Miss Perry in her youth 
undoubtedly possessed many personal attrac- 
tions. Her figure was fine, her complexion 
marvellous, her eyes a deep blue, and her 
golden hair, which was her particular glory, 
was long, wavy, and very beautiful. 
I Bright, vivacious, and always clever at rep- 
artee she was hailed as an acquisition at every 
gathering, and in later years, when she made 
her home in Boston, she was conspicuous at 
the literary receptions of Mrs. Sargent for her 
wit, gaiety, and the fearless expression of 
her convictions. Miss Perry was incapable of 
feigning an interest she did not feel, and that 
which she did experience was so genuine and 
vital that it was something she never dreamed 
of simulating ; her friendship was a very live 
and potent factor to those intimately acquainted 



Er^:t,^^i 



with her, to whom she brought the inspiration 
which springs from a keen grasp of truth, an 
enthusiasm for the beautiful, and a just appre- 
ciation of the relative values in life. She formed 
her own opinions and uttered them frankly, 
relying less than do most people upon the 
judgment of others. Intensely loyal to her 
friends, she was tireless in her endeavors to be 
of service to them, and her quickness of tem- 
perament tolerated no slights or derogatory 
statements which might be directed towards 
them. 

Miss Perry numbered among her intimate 
friends Whittier, Wendell Phillips, George 
William Curtis, and many other eminent men, 
who appreciated her unique personality and 
unusual gifts. Her friendship with Whittier 
may be particularly emphasized, for she pos- 
sessed his love and confidence to a rare de- 
gree, and the bond of intimacy which extended 
over many years was a very strong one. The 



serious poet exchanged jests with her, told 
her stories, and delighted in the gay and auda- 
cious speeches which she alone would have 
dared to venture. It is doubtful if any of Whit- 
tier's friends were vouchsafed quite the same 
ingenuous good-comradeship as that bestowed 
upon the flippant *'Nora," beneath whose flip- 
pancy the Quaker Poet discerned the same 
directness and sincerity which characterized 
his own mental standpoint. With Wendell 
Phillips, who was also a warm friend, she 
enjoyed the same spontaneity of intercourse 
and frank good-fellowship. 
I Her friendship with John Hay, formed a 
short time before the close of his college days, 
awakened an enthusiastic response in the 
young man, whose own poetic nature readily 
revealed itself under the warmth of her sym- 
pathetic interest. Her commendation of his 
verse, her willingness to read him her own 
forthcoming poems, and to discuss with him 



'^f^^mi 



her literary ideals, were a keen source of grati- 
fication to the young collegiate, who was about 
to plunge into the commercial atmosphere of 
a western life. In the first days which ensued 
after his return to his home in Warsaw, Illi- 
nois, he felt sharply the contrast in the con- 
ditions about him to those which he had found 
so inspiring in Providence. 

His opening letter to Miss Perry refers, a 
bit mournfully, to a " happier state of exist- 
ence," from which he sighs to think that he 
is now banished. It also voices his admiration 
for Mrs. Whitman, of whom he speaks in 
nearly all of his communications, and of his 
dehghtful memories of the hours spent in her 
drawing-room. 

Warsaiv, III. 
Aug. 2,0th {\%5B). 

However much you may have wondered. 
Miss Perry y at not receiving an answer to the 




note you so kindly sent me in Providence, your 
surprise will probably be much greater upon re- 
ceiving this —for your own experience of the 
fVest has probably taught you how unstable are 
all promises made by faithless nomads of the 
prairies, and how readily all their ties and asso- 
ciations formed in the East are dissolved by the 
air of Illinois. It is probably too late for me to 
begin to account for a neglect which seems at best 
unaccountable, but I will try to absolve my own 
conscience, and I cannot flatter myself that your 
interest in the matter is sufficient to cause you to 
demand an elaborate explanation. Being absent 
from the city when your note was written, I did 
not receive it until I was on the point of depart- 
ure, and the necessary business which I had to 
transact occupied my time so fully that I could 
neither allow myself the pleasure of calling upon 
you, nor of preparing that copy of verses which 
you flatter me by requesting. Ever since that, I 
have been on my homeward journey, delaying at 



" 13 " 

several points, until now the fogs of September 
have come before their time to give me a chilling 
welcome to my home. But now that my journey 
is finished, and the noise and bustle that banished 
thought during its progress is gone, my mind has 
leisure to travel back to the ''good bye lande" 
that I have left, and I am willifig to turn away 
from the familiar faces that I meet in the streets 
offVarsaw and go to my room to converse with 
shadows. Tou may smile at that expression, but 
the lady whom I now honor myself by addressitig 
is only a shadow to me, however pleasant a re- 
ality she may be to others who are blest with her 

society. 

And thus it is that I hasten to fulfill a promise 
made in a happier state of existetice, and connect 
myself by a bond, however slight, to one whom I 
hope you will permit me to call a friend, none 
the less valued because so recent. And if I may 
beg a reward, not just but generous, may I ask 
you to send me one of those charming lyrics. 



[^ 14 " 

which cost you so little, and which have the sil- 
very music and swing and sparkle, because they 
are yours simply, and because you are content to 
sing them as you heard them in Dreamland with- 
out impertinent alteration. Only my thanks can 
repay you. 

I was exceedingly disappointed at not being 
able to see Mrs. Whitman before I left Provi- 
dence. I delayed calling upon her for a long time, 
but I hope the explanation which I have sent will 
be sufficient to excuse me. One of the most valued 
of the treasures that I have brought out to glad- 
den the solitude of a western winter is the mem- 
ory of an evening that I spent at her house this 
summer, and I shall count it the heaviest of mis- 
fortunes to lose all hope of future intercourse 
with a spirit so exalted, whose influence is inevit- 
ably refining upon even the humblest minds 
which are brought in contact with it. Trusting 
then at some future day to renew an acquaint- 
ance whose beginning has been so delightful to 




[15] ^»ir 

me, and hoping that the interval of banishment 
may not be altogether silent y 

I remain "^^t 

Tours very sincerely 

John Hay. 



A little more than a month has elapsed 
since the penning of his first letter, when he 
replies to one of Miss Perry's communica- 
tions, in which she has enclosed some of her 
own poetic work. In regard to this, he speaks 
enthusiastically, congratulating himself, as in 
his first letter, upon the bonds of friendship 
which still link him with the literary coterie 
in Providence, where he had found true appre- 
ciation and sympathy. He proceeds to contrast 
his life in the West with that left behind, and 
refers to the copy made by him of her poem 
"La Papillon," which he encloses, refusing 



;; 16 ^ 

her request for something of his own on the 
ground that it is not worthy to travel in such 
superior company 



, v.*^>a 








•.>! 



m 



m 



^■^{^'//'•^'Ei'^S^ 



October \2^ 1858. 



My dear Miss Perry : 

I shall not attempt to tell you how re- 
joiced I was at receiving your very kind letter. 
I had the pleasure of meeting you hut a very few 
times J hut with the quick instinct of a woman and 
a poet y you saw how susceptible I was to the flat- 
tery of those I esteemed. So you can judge that 
I was more than delighted with your letter, and 
still continue to read it with unabated pleasure. 
Even though I know myself unworthy of the 
praise you so kindly give me, I cannot but be 
pleased that you consider me of sufficient import- 
ance to flatter me. 



b 







'it^\ 



T*3^^C?5^^'WC?^ 



Tet while I read your letter, I could not hut 
shrink from the prospect of answering it. The 
very fact of your writing to me proved that you 
had an opinion of my powers which I might 
vainly strive to justify, and when I read the 
poems which you added, I was still more embar- 
rassed in view of my situation. I despair of ever 
carrying on a correspondence on terms in any de- 
gree approaching equality with one whose mental 
plane is so far above my own. The pieces with 
which you honored me were different from others 
of yours which I had read and admired, and I 
was filled with a delighted surprise on beholding 
you unwreath from your brow the vine-leaf of 
the Bacchante and assume with equal grace the 
laurel of the Pythoness. I could only read them 
with delight, and then silently wonder how such 
good fortune had befallen me. 

I shall never cease to congratulate myself upon 
the acquaintances I formed during the last few 
months of my stay in Providence. I found among 



;W'4r, 






them the objects for which my mind had always 
longed, true appreciation and sympathy. It is to 
their own goodness and generosity that I render 
all the kindness which I met with, and not to any 
qualities of my own ;for it is the highest glory of 
genius to he quick in sympathy and prodigal of 
praise. But now when I am removed to a colder 
mental atmosphere, and the hopes and aspirations 
that gilded the gliding hours of my last year at 
college are fading away, I still can console my- 
self with a dream of the possibilities that once 
were mine, and soothe my soul with the shadowy 
Might-have-been. In spite of the praise which 
you continually lavish upon the fVest, I must re- 
spectfully assert that I find only a dreary waste 
of heartless materialism, where great and heroic 
qualities may indeed bully their way up into the 
glare, but the flowers of existence inevitably droop 
and wither. So in time I shall change. I shall 
turn from **the rose and the rainbow " to comer- 
lots and tax-titles, and a few years will find my 



eye not rolling in a fine frenzy, hut steadily fixed 
on the pole-star of humanity, $ / ^''^■^ 

But I am not yet so far degraded that I can- 
not love poetry and worship a poet. So let me 
implore you to ask a favor of me as often as you 
possibly can — whatever it is, it is granted as 
soon as asked, if you will only acknowledge it as 
you did the last. If you will so far favor me your 
letters will he a thread of gold woven into the 
dusky texture of a western life. 

JVith unalloyed pleasure I copy that delicious 
" La Papillon," hut are you not ashamed of your 
unnatural neglect? I would take the bright wan- 
derer and claim it for my own if I dared. But it 
would look in my household like the last hope of 
Persia in the hovel of a cobbler of Bagdad. 

I would have bored you with something of 
mine, but it would not dare to travel in company 
with'' La Papillon." 

Will you, in mercy, write to me again f If it 
were not so brazen I would beg to see another of 



[ 20 " 

those new poems from which you selected that 
magnificent battle-piece. fVhy did you not give 
a name to the second poem f It has too much 
spiritual beauty to be called Anacreontic. Tou 
ask me to name the former. fVhat do you think 
of^^Upharsin"^ 

I have run myself into a corner and will now 
close. 

Tours very truly, 

John Hay. 

I am very anxiously awaiting a letter from 
Mrs. fFhit?nan. Is she in Providence^ 



A few months later, in a letter throughout 
which runs a vein of depression mingled with 
the writer's ever sparkling touches of humor, 
Mr. Hay again eulogizes Providence, and re- 
calls the joys of his college life, contrasting 
his festive student days with the gross dissi- 



pation practised by the youth of his western 
town. He voices his attitude towards his sur- 
roundings, which are so wholly out of har- 
mony with his own trend of thought, and 
literary and esthetic tastes. The writer en- 
closes two poems which have presumedly 
never appeared in print, and which have, for 
fifty years, lain hidden away in the packet of 
old letters. 



tt 1 



JVarsaw^ 
January 2nd, 1859. 



Let me hope, J^ora, that your Christmas was 
merrier than mine. Whatever he your fortune, 
you are happy in yourself and in your friends. 
Tou have the poetic soul that can idealize com- 
mon things till they stand before you in trans- 
figured vitality. Permit me to say also that you 
have what is better than all poetry, the warm 



•■■\4-vW^'?' 



,11-i.-*' - ■ rl**-^. ■l.,"r- 



[ 22 ] 

and catholic love of a woman for everything that 
is beautiful or good. The world must be very fair 
as seen through the rosy atmosphere of luxuriant 
youth and maidenhood. Memory paints warm 
pictures of the past, to adorn the gay revels of 
the present, and the mind goes a-gypsying into 
the future. Tou are much to blame if you are not 
happy, lighted through pleasant places by the 
soul of a poet. 




Singing alone in the morning oflife^ 

In the happy morning of youth and of May ^ 

A passionate ballad^ gallant and gay. ' * 

If you loved Providence as I do you would 
congratulate yourself hourly upon your lot. I turn 
my eyes eastward, like an Islamite, when I feel 
prayerful. The city of fVayland, and fVilliams 
that smiles upon its beauty glassed in the still 
mirror of the Karragansett waves, is shrined in 
my memory as a far-off mystical Eden where the 
women were lovely and spirituelle, and the men 










;; 23 " 

were jolly and brave ; where I used to haunt the 
rooms of the Athenaum, made holy by the pres- 
ence of the royal dead ; where I used to pay fur- ^ 
the visits to Forbes' forbidden mysteries {peace " 
to its ashes ! ) , where I used to eat Hasheesh and 
dream dreams. My life will not be utterly deso- 
late while memory is left me, and while I may 
recall the free pleasures of the student-time ; 
pleasures in which there was no taint of selfish- 
ness commingled, and which lost half their sin in 
losing all their grossness. Day is not more dif- 
ferent from night than they were from the wild 
excesses of the youth of this barbarous West. 

Tet to this field I am called, and I accept 
calmly, if not joyfully, the challenge of fate. 
From present indications my sojourn in this 
«' wale of tears," as the elder fVeller pathetically 
styles it, will not be very protracted. I can stand 
it for a few years, I suppose. My father, with 
more ambition and higher ideals than I,has dwelt 
and labored here a lifetime, and even this winter 



I 24 ] 

does not despair of creating an interest in things 
intellectual among the great unshorn of the prai- 
ries. I am not suited for a reformer. I do not 
like to meddle with moral ills. I love comfort- 
able people. I prefer, for my friends, men who 
can read. In the words of the poet Pigwiggen, 
whom Keal has immortalized in the ** Charcoal 
Sketches;* « / know I'm a genus, 'cause I hate 
work worse 'n thunder, and would like to cut my 
throat — only it hurts." JV hen you reUect how 
unsuitable such sentiments are to the busy life of 
the Mississippi Valley, you may imagine then 
what an overhauling my character must receive 
— at my own hands, too. 

There is, as yet, no room in the West for a 
genius. I mean, of course, of the Pigwiggen 
model. Impudence and rascality are the talis- 
mans that open the gates of preferment. I am a 
Westerner. The influences of civilization galvan- 
ized me for a time into a feverish life, but they 
will vanish before this death-in-life of solitude. 



[25] 

/ chose it, however, and my blood is on my own 
head. 

I received Mrs. fVhitman's very kind letter a 
day or two ago. To have friends, esteemed like 
her, welcome me so cordially hack to life is some- 
thing worth being sick for. I will seize the privi- 
lege of zvriting to her soon. When I last wrote 
I promised to send her something saved from the 
wreck that burnt in my stove last winter. But I 
concluded not to look back, and so will request 
you to hand her the enclosed affair, being the 
only fruit of so many months of exile. If you can 
read it, look upon it, not with justice but mercy. 
I wrote it the other morning because I felt like it, 
and I don't know whether it is passable or exe- 
crable. I add another somewhat dissimilar. lam 
at once flattered and grateful for the favor you 
conferred upon me and my lines at the Phalan- 
stery. I, alas I have no audience out of my own 
family to read your beautiful poems to, but they 
all admire them equally with me. 



?;•:' 



-;^ 



^k 



["k 



I send a little piece in which I say a little^ 
meaning a good deal. Boys are not often success- 
ful in condensation. fFill you please give my love 
to the Doctor. , 






^1 l*g^' 



■ ■iLV^Wiij^'^-fiH.-: 




PARTED 

We sailed logether once on the sea — 

In the blast I am driving now alone. 

One night a stranger came up on the lee — 

The morn woke clouded and thou wert gone. 
i- 

Joy fill his sails for the sake of thee 
While I sail on o'er the rainy sea. 

Black the clouds threaten. My heart is as dark. 
(How glad was the sunlight when thou wert near.) 
But ril trim the sails of my lonely bark, 
And mock the wind with a merry cheer. 

For a storm comes out of the lurid lee 
And night comes down o'er the rainy sea. 



^M% 



[Written, January, 1859.] 



^^^^J0^-: 



1 27 2 

This little poem evidently embodies the 
writer's longing for that responsive compan- 
ionship which his fellow poet had supplied, 
and which in his western environment he 
sadly missed. He ofiers it to Miss Perry as 
a personal tribute from her young literary 

friend. 

The verses which follow are quite imper- 
sonal as far as Miss Perry is concerned ; they 
reflect the writer's own mental attitude, re- 
veal something of the spiritual conflict through 
which he was then passing, and voice his 
doubts and fears and wonderments regarding 
life, death, and love. 



IN THE MIST 

"As flies to wanton boys, are, we to the gods; 
They kill us for their sport."— Lear. 

Drearily sweeping above the dim plain, 
Wanders the rain; 




v'sk ■Kf:; ■--■■•-■■ir.. ■•'•.•■ • 



[28 ] 

Mad fly the shadows, and eager behind, 
Chases the wind ; ^H^^B^^^^M»!l 
And the mist of the evening dank, dismal, and chill, 
Like the curse of a father, hangs low on the hill. 
Through the murk air 
Wails the faint voice of a sullen despair ; 
Solemn and slow, 
BOver my head l^^HESSIil 

Flit the black plumes of a vanishing crow, 
Till in the thick darkness his darkness is lost. 
Like the black-flitting ghost 
Of a hate that is dead . ' ~" 

Dreary the sky ! ^ 
Dreary the heath ! 

Why should we shudder to slumber or die? 

Peaceful is death. ^^^^^' 

Weary the strife 

Ofour wintry life! 

Our eyes grow dazed with the staring day. 

Our brain grows crazed with the limidess rattle 

And we long to sink down from the sulphurous 

battle. 
And steal from the thunderous tumult away. 




lU 






< ■■'•,v. 



C 29 ] p> 

To the victor the palm ! i 

To the wounded the balm ! , 

Tearless and calm in the grave they shkll sleep, ^^ 

Weary and worn on the earth we shall weep. 

But ah ! Is it brave 

To go down to the grave? 

When the heaven laughs aloud in its infinite glee, 

When the sunlight is sparkling on mountain and sea, 

When every day has its silvery tongue 

To challenge the red-leaping blood of the young, 

Shall we steal from the sunlight so golden and broad 

To slumber in silence beneath the cold sod? 

And the cold glare of Destiny's pitiless eyes 

Strikes the heart with a stony Medusean chill. 

What matter our curses? What matter our prayers? 

They are swallowed above by the thin hungry airs. 

God has given us the world, he has left us the grave. 

He is too good to love us, too lofty to save. 

The world with her burden of woe and of crime 

Rolls on through the twilight of gathering years. 

While she twines round her brow the dim trophies 

of time, 
And joins in the thunderous chime of the spheres. 



^(^m^:^ 



r J'iii 



,^pi^^,(; 



V 



k^ 




No wail from the earth breaks the calm of the sky, 

Unheeded we live and unheeded we die. 

Then why should we sing of a home in the skies 

Or mourn in the dusk of the spirit's eclipse, 

When a pledge of joy lurks in the challenging eyes 

And the love-dew is sparkling on budding red lips. 

Then garland the bowl ! 

Let the shuddering soul 

Here stifle the voice of its idle alarms ! 

Let doubt sink to sleep 

In oblivion deep 

Within the white joy of love's sheltering arms! 

Launch the boat! Set the sails! and adown the still 

stream 
We will glide with the mystical float of a dream. 
Ah, vain the endeavor! Along the dim river 
The voice of the ages low whispers "In vain," 
Death sits at the helm, and our shallop forever 
Drives into the night, through the mist and the rain. 



The verses which follow were apparently 
enclosed with the ones above, and as they were 






NOi*<; 



[3. ] 

without any heading, it is likely that they were 
intended as a second part of the same poem. 
The unfinished stanza at the end seems to in- 
dicate that these were not the closing lines of 
the poem, which were doubtless penned upon 
an additional sheet that has not been preserved. 



To slumber in silence, nor feeling nor knowing 
That the breezes are out and the roses are growing ! 
Is it well? Is it well? 
The living are mazed and the dead cannot tell. 

Still wails the mad wind through the shuddering 

vale, 
Still hangs the white mist on the slope of the hills. 
The elm-leaves upturned in the shadows grow pale, 
And the peach flowers fall in the wind's dying thrills. 
Not alone in the gloom of the charnel is death. 
But he lurks in the forest, he strives in the trees. 
The trembling leaves fall at his withering breath ; 
Flowers sicken and die. There is death in the breeze. 
And the morning will come in its splendor and glory, 



' [ 32 ' 

And the mist 
Will be kissed 
By the jolly red day, 

But the sky of the east will be dabbled and gory, 
And the night 
From the light 
Shall fade sickly and gray. 

And when the fired leaves in the bright sun arc 
.^^SS» dancing. 
And the wanton hills pant in the joy of his blaze, 
Full-freighted with fate his hot arrows are glancing, 
And death in high carnival laughs in his rays. 
And thus while the earth in his rapture is gleaming. 
Death's thick-trailing veils of malaria rise, 
To chill the warm blushes of Nature's sweet dream- 
ing, 
And blot the white bliss that transfigured the skies. 



Oh, lurks there no spot in the waste of the world. 
Where the black shade of care skulks forever away, 
Where the soul, like a rose with its petals dim-furled. 
Shall flush in warm dreams through the glimmering 
day? 



[^ 33 ' 

Does there bloom in the bleak desolation no spot 
Where joy dies in calm and the spoiler is not? 
"Ah, yes!" whispers Youth, and his merry voice 

swells 
With the soul-drunken music of sweet marriage- 



" Seek not for a heaven in the cold blue above 
While the earth blushes red with the roses of love. 
For what shall awake us to life's vague alarms 
When lost in the clinging of tender white arms? 
What shade flecks the blank of love's fiery bliss 
When rosy lips melt in their earliest kiss. 
And we gaze on a heaven more fair than the skies 
Shrined deep in the azure of passionate eyes? 
How rich the wild sunbeams that over us glimmer. 
How leaps the hot heart in the burst of its pride, 
While lapt in a shimmer that ever grows dimmer. 
We sail with the sweep of the rose-rippled tide! 
Soon we cease sailing 
The summer-lit sea. 
For us is the wailing. 
For Death is the glee ! 
Where'er in soft dalliance fond lovers play 







[34 3 

Death glides like the darkness pursuing the day, 
Ever wakeful the spectre creeps into love's bowers 
And mingles his gall with the slumbering flowers. 
All rudely his fingers the soft arms unclasp 
From the neck that was thrilling to bliss in their 

grasp, ^Hl 
He hushes low laughter, he dims the fond eyes 
And stifles the bliss of the maiden's warm sighs; 
And on the sweet lips, the bright heaven of Love's 

prayer. 
He will riot in glee while they rest unaware. 

Oh, God! Oh, our Father! Oh, Mighty to save! 
As thy might, so thy Love. Is there love in the grave? 

When low we lie 
Death can but kill. 
But love may die 
Ere the heart is still. 



The glory vanishes out of the skies 
When out of the heart its true Love dies, 
The thrill of joy, the laugh of mirth 
Die away from the waste wide earth, 



And the heart hangs lone like a desolate lyre 
That moans forever its wildered wail, 
And pours the voice of its vague desire 
On the heedless ear of the mocking gale. 

And why shall we struggle? The mist will not rise 
Though we shout till the echoes die faint on the hill. 



Had these early poems fallen into the hands 
of their author "twenty years after" their 
composition, he, with his fastidious taste in 
literary matters, would doubtless have imme- 
diately consigned them to the scrap-basket, 
pronouncing them "effusive," "morbid," "im- 
mature," — and certainly unworthy to be pre- 
served among his contributions to the poetic 
world. 

Every poet, who has achieved celebrity, has 
suffered from the frequent unearthing and re- 
printing of bits of his early work that he would 




[36] 

fain obliterate, but which from time to time 
. reappear to torment their creator, who has 
long since outgrown them. And it is truly an 
unpardonable offence to bring forth, as if it 
were a typical, mature production, some early 
piece of work, snatched from its context, and 
robbed of its extenuating circumstances. 

But it is quite a different thing to study the 
man himself through certain aspects of his 
^arly, experimental efforts. This is true in re- 
gard to these examples of John Hay's youth- 
ful verse. These picture, as do his letters, 
gj penned at this time, an interesting phase in the 
writer's development, a phase through which 
" he passed just before entering upon his active 
participation in the great struggle that con- 
vulsed the land in 1861. 

The time which elapsed between John Hay's 

1 graduation from Brown University, and his 

acceptance of the post of assistant secretary 

to Lincoln, was a period of outward calm for 



the young collegiate and law student, but of 
much inward conflict and unrest. The future 
thinker, statesman, diplomat, and man-of-let- 
ters was finding himself, and in the process he 
touched the very depths of gloom and black- 
ness before emerging into the clear sunlight 
of serenity and poise. 

His picture, as he pens it for us, reveals the 
writer outwardly gay and nonchalant, ab- 
sorbed in business and in social activities, but 
inwardly engaged in a spiritual conflict which 
stirred his nature to its very foundation. God, 
Life, Death, Immortality, and Love, what was 
his attitude towards these ? What his beliefs 
concerning them? What his relationship to 
each .? What was his aim in life ? His mission ? 
And what was, after all, his true vocation ? 

Such was the inward questioning, the mental 
strife which was going on in the soul and mind 
of the boyish enthusiast, who was to be the 
instrument of Abraham Lincoln, and one of this 



♦ 



I 38 "^ 

great nation's greatest statesmen, but who at 
heart still longed to be above all else a poet. 

It is^ a glimpse of such a struggle that is 
registered in these early letters and in the ac- 
companying verses, which must be viewed, 
not as the poetry of John Hay, but as John 
Hay at 21; thoughtful, sensitive, idealistic, 
with a keen sense of humor, exquisite taste in 
things, people, and thoughts, and a remark- 
able command of his own mother tongue. 

The two remaining letters are penned from 
Springfield, Illinois; the one in May, 1859, 
and the other almost a year later, m mj m 

In the interim Hay had left Warsaw, and 
after a brief stay at Pittsfield had begun the 
study of law with his uncle. Colonel Milton 
Hay, though it is recorded that for a time he 
seriously considered the subject of studying 
for the ministry. sai^H^^^ 
I At Springfield young Hay found his uncle 
in the turmoil of the political struggle which 













was to lead to the nomination of Abraham 
Lincoln for the Presidency. Milton Hay's as- 
sociation with Lincoln was most intimate, and 
his nephew John was thrown into very close 
relationship with the latter; his appointment 
to the assistant-secretaryship came about nat- 
urally, and the opening of the conflict found 
John G. Nicolay, secretary to Lincoln, assisted 
by John Hay. 



Springjieldy 
Mat/ 15th, 1859. 

My dear Miss Perry : 

On arriving here yesterday I was no less 
surprised than delighted to find a letter from you. 
As it has pursued rather a devious and lonesome 
course in following me through three weeks of 
Ishmaelitish wandering, I will not longer delay 
an answer, especially as my letter brings some- 



;; 40 ] 

thing to recommend itself y in the shape of the en- 
closed beautiful tribute to the material loveliness 
of our state, and the sparkling and rippling chimes 
which follow it. It is very amusing for me to be 
able to supply from my jealously hoarded store, 
jewels which you have scattered in the careless 
profusion of intellectual wealth. I should think 
of mutiny and sullen rebellion, however, if it were 
not for the promise you make of future restoration. 
It may seem somewhat strange to you. Miss 
Perry, that /, holding, as you know I did, the 
honor of a correspondence with you and with 
Mrs. Whitman so high, and regarding it as so 
far above my own deserving, should have availed 
myself so little of the privilege so kindly granted. 
Let me make another admission, which may sur- 
prise you still more. Had it not been for the last 
note you wrote me, in which your goodness of heart 
was still so clearly visible, I should have probably 
never written to you again more than a sad ac- 
knowledgement of former kindness. But seeing 



[^1 ] 

your handwriting once more and meeting you in 
spirit again, unites in a manner the broken links 
of the chain that hinds the past and the present. 
Let me request, then, the privilege of a reply, and 
the pleasure of a continuance of the correspond- 
ence. In the mean time, I may only hint the rea- 
son of my silence. 

I have wandered this winter in the valley of 
the shadow of death. All the universe, God, earth, 
a?id heaven have been to me but vague and gloomy 
phantasms. I have conversed with wild imagin- 
ings in the gloom of the forests. I have sat long 
hours by the sandy marge of my magnificent river, 
and felt the awful mystery of its unending flow, 
and heard an infinite lament breathed in the un- 
quiet murmur of its whispering ripples. JSTever 
before have I been so much in society. Tet into 
every parlor my Daemon has pursued me. fVhen 
the air has been fainting with prisoned perfumes, 
when every spirit thrilled to the delicate touch of 
airy harmonies, zvhen perfect forms moved in uni- 



"' 4-2 ] 

son with perfect musky and mocked with their vo- 
luptuous grace the tortured aspirations of poetry, I 
have felt, coming over my soul colder than a north- 
em wind, a conviction of the hideous unreality 
of all that moved and swayed and throbbed be- 
fore me. It was not with the eye of a bigot, or 
the diseased perceptions of a penitent that Hooked 
upon such scenes ; it was with what seemed to 



Thus far I wrote, and turned over the page and 
zvrote no more for an hour. Tou have had enough 
of that kind of agonized confession, have n't you ^ 
An open human heart is not a pleasant thing. 
I wanted only to tell you why I had not written. 
It would have been easier to say it was simply im- 
possible. 

lam now at work. In work I always find rest. 
A strange paradox— but true. If my health re- 
turns, I do not question but that I shall work out 
of these shadows. If not, there is a cool rest under 



C^3] 

the violets, and eternity is long enough to make 
right the errors and deficiencies of time. 

Please write to me before long. I should not 
send you such a spasmodic and unfinished thing 
as this — hut you wa?it that article. I am going 
to join a spiritual circle soon. I am, of course, an 
unbeliever, but Mrs. fVhitman has taught me to 
respect the new revelation, if not to trust it. How 
happy I should have been under other circum- 
stances in my acquaintance with a soul so pure 
and high as hers. Tell her something for me that 
will not make her think less of me, and believe me. 
Tours very sincerely, 

John Hay. 



I wrote to O'Connor a long time ago, and 
have heard nothing from him. Is he still in Phil- 
adelphia ^ 






,1WM»„.»L*5 



Z**l 






K<;--'-^'^'--- 



Springfield, III. 
March 4>, 1860. 

/ cannot adequately tell you how flat- 
tered I was on receiving the evidence which you 
and the Doctor sent me so kindly, that I was not 
utterly forgotten by those I can never forget. I 
hope you may never he placed in a situation where 
you will he ahle to sympathize with my present 
habitudes of mind, or appreciate the feelings of 
grateful delight occasioned by a kindness like your 
last. 

When in the midst of my laborious and in- 
tensely practical studies, the current of my 
thoughts is changed by a reminder of a state of 
existence so much higher than mine, I feel for a 
moment as a pilgrim might have felt, in the days 
zvhen angels walked zvith men, who, lying weary 
and exhausted with his toilsome journey, has 
heard in the desert silence faint hints of celestial 



[45] 

melody, and seen the desolate sands empurpled 
and glorified with a fleeting flash of spiritual 
wings. 

The splendor fadesy hut the ripples of memory 
still stir the stagnant waters of the soul, and life 
is less dreary that the vision has come and gone. 

It is cowardly in me to cling so persistently to 
a life which is past. It is my duty, and in truth 
it is my ultimate intention to qualify myself for 
a fVestern Lawyer, et praeterea nihil, " only that 
and nothing more.'' Along the path of my future 
life, short tho' it he, my vision runs unchecked. 
J^o devious ways. JVo glimpses of sudden splen- 
dor striking athwart. jsTo mysteries. J^o deep 
shadows, save those in my own soul, for I expect 
prosperity, speaking after the manner of men. 
JVb intense lights hut at the end. So my life lies, 
A straight path — on both sides quiet labor, at 
the end. Death and Rest. 

Tet though I knozv all this, though I feel that 
Illinois and Rhode Island are entirely antipa- 



Tsr^^^' 



^m^ 



thetic — though I am aware that thy people are 
not my people y nor thy God my God, I cannot shut 
my friends out of my memory or annihilate the 
pleasant past. I cannot help being delighted to 
receive a letter from you, and to know that the 
Doctor sometimes remembers me. When I read 
*' After the Ball,' and when, going into the 
State House, the Secretary of State said to me, 
" Hay, have you read the last Atlantic f there is 
the prettiest poem there this month it has ever pub- 
lished,'' I could not help feeling a personal pride 
that I had heard it read, alive with the poet's 
voice and warm from the poet's heart. 

JVhat more can I say than to confess that my 
friends are necessary to me, to ask you to give my 
love to the Doctor, and to write to me as soon as 
you will. How glad I am that the world is learn- 
ing to love Mrs. Whitman as much as those who 
have sat at the feet of the revered Priestess. 

John Hay. 



So closes the last letter in the little packet, 
tied up half-a-century ago, and the sensitive 
college boy, with his literary aspirations and 
poetic ideals, turns to follow his new chief in 
the direction of the "State House," casting a 
reluctant glance behind him at his alma mater, 
and at the loved group of friends in Providence. 

In the light of John Hay's subsequent ca- 
reer this last letter is of special interest, setting 
forth as it does his youthful prophecy in regard 
to the dim future stretching ahead of him. 

And what a contrast that early vision pre- 
sents to the actual unfolding of the life which 
was to be the writer's portion ! 

John Hay longed for the cuhured atmos- 
phere of that small literary circle in Provi- 
dence which he felt he had once for all relin- 
quished, and dreamed not that the centres of 
culture the wide world over would one day 
beckon him to their holy of holies. He saw 
himself a hum-drum western lawyer, and 




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C4« ] 

caught no glimpse of the honored associate of 
leaders in the land which he was destined to 
become.^ He pictured for himself « no devious 
ways," no "sudden splendor," yet he was 
bound to traverse the former with ease and 
diplomatic skill, to bear the latter with modest 
grace. 

There were indeed "deep shadows," and 
a "prosperity" transcending youthful hopes. 
And finally, "intense lights " — "at the end," 
yes, here only too truly his early prophecy 
was realized. For "at the end "the search- 
lights of the world were flashed upon him. 



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